


Doesn't Look A Thing Like Jesus

by turianosauruswrex



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Crucifixion, Gen, Lobotomy, Near Death Experiences, Poor Life Choices, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Shooting, Stabbing, Stigmata, neither is strictly necessary for the enjoyment of the other but they pair nicely, there are so many OCs in this, ties in with the epistolary fic tho, you know just Tuesday for Courier Six
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 16:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11085606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turianosauruswrex/pseuds/turianosauruswrex
Summary: Courier Six bears her scars like trophies. They tell of her greatest victories and deepest shames, but above all, they're a testament to her indomitable will to survive.





	1. Mid-October, 2279

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the fact that, very much by accident, I gave my Legion courier all five (plus one) stigmata, the piercing wounds Jesus suffered during the crucifixion: one in each hand, one in each foot and one in the side (plus wounds from the crown of thorns). This fic provides a little background on her, the reasoning behind and consequences of her joining the Legion and, of course, the stories of how she got those scars in the first place.
> 
> Title comes from the song "When You Were Young" by The Killers because I am nothing if not early 2000s emo band garbage.

**Mid-October, 2279**

“ _Dios mío,_ Jules _,_ how'd you get that?”

Chavez's thumb traced up the long scar curving to her right from navel to waistline, and she let out the slightest of sighs. Frustrating but not entirely unexpected; after all, enough men had asked about it back at h-- back in Nipton, why shouldn't this one? Especially given he was more than just another stranger passing through town, another soldier on leave from the Outpost.

It had been different things to each of them: an Auto-Doc gone rogue, an emergency surgery she'd had to perform herself (with no painkillers, of course), a tragic and unlikely kitchen accident...some excuses were delivered with more levity than others. A few of the men had feigned interest, but ultimately they weren't there to learn about her-- no one came to Nipton to _talk_ to its women.

This one's eyes, though, they were different, a deep, warm brown that, as Jules quickly noticed, easily betrayed his feelings even as he tried to maintain a straight face (he'd been practicing since the fifth time she'd beat him in a game of poker but she could still read him like a book). Quick to laugh, too honest for his own good-- especially when he was trying to start a caravan route near New Vegas-- friendly, generous, kind. And now something else: concerned.

“ _Dios mío_ ,” he whispered again, fingers brushing over the scar a second time as she involuntarily flinched.

The memory sliced through the haze of jet and booze from the past three years (or was it four?):

_A man much larger than her with his hands around her throat, squeezing it shut even as she clawed at him to get away-- she can't remember who it is now, a gang member or anonymous criminal or one of her clients...her bad habits blurred the details of his identity; nearly dying didn't help either._

_A swipe at his eyes, that'll do it, her nails raking across his face and drawing blood and she squirms away as he lets go and screams with rage. She gasps for air and pushes herself to her feet, but she's too slow, too unsteady, and he's grabbing her from behind and driving a blade into her belly and pulling it up and across like he's gutting an animal. With a howl muffled by the hand over her mouth she scrabbles for her own knife in her belt, hands shaking as she pulls it out and stabs blindly up where his neck should be--_

_It's her lucky day. He gasps, his hand flying to feel the weapon now sticking from his jugular, but there's nothing he can do and he collapses, letting her go. She follows suit within seconds, clutching her stomach and fighting for consciousness. The next thing she knows she's drifting awake in her bed, a line of stitches running across the wound-- she didn't and doesn't remember who saved her, being unconscious at the time, but contrary to what certain men have been told it most definitely wasn't her own doing. She thinks she sees her mother kneeling at her bedside, tear-streaked face begging her to hold on, stay with her, she can't lose her now, please..._

_Her vision clears and no one's there._

“Jules?” Chavez's voice brought her back to the present, his eyes meeting hers and reflecting the lamplight coming from the table by his (their?) bed. None of the others knew the truth-- none of them had earned it. Has he? They were...friends, weren't they? Over the months since they met, shortly after she made it out of that _shithole_ of a town and started with the Mojave Express, they'd become remarkably close remarkably quickly, but it also made her hesitant-- it had only been _months_ , after all. Well, then again, they'd been sleeping together-- frankly she was surprised it took him this long to ask, given how many times he'd seen that scar by now-- but she knew it didn't mean anything; hell, just look at the past three years of her life. But she couldn't deny they were friends, at least-- but that was it. Friends, with benefits. Anything else...she'd finish that thought later.

“Oh, that?” She smiled and wound his dark curls around her fingers. “Deathclaw got me. You think that's bad, you should've seen _him_ when I was done with him.” She ruffled his hair and pulled his hand away. “Nothing at all to worry about.”

With a pleasant, drowsy sigh she closed her eyes and turned over, her back towards him and arms tucked under a pillow. “Goodnight, Chavez.” She could tell the light was dimming and going out as he turned it down before putting an arm around her waist and gently pulling her close.

“Goodnight, Jules.” He paused, then continued, quieter, more shy.  “...I love you.”

Her eyes snapped open, heart suddenly racing, panic coursing through her veins. He just-- he said-- but they were-- they were _friends_ _!_ Just friends! Friends who...fine, okay, something _else_ was there but-- but falling in _love_?! She wasn't-- she couldn't-- that's not what they-- she--

Oh god, she couldn't handle this.

She stayed there, perfectly still, until she heard his soft, familiar snores and was sure he was asleep. Carefully as she could, she slipped out of his embrace and tiptoed to the lamp, lighting it just enough to where her clothes were visible, scattered on the floor with his, along with her messenger bag hanging on a peg by the door by his coat. Oh GOD, this was too much, she couldn't...

She dressed as quickly and quietly as she possible, shaking hands fumbling with her tights, her bra, oh god her shirt was on backwards, where’d her other boot go? Every so often she threw frantic glances towards him to make sure he wasn't waking up but she didn't have to worry; unlike her he was a heavy sleeper, often hard to rouse in the mornings when his caravan needed to get moving. Not that Jules had ever complained about a few more minutes next to him before the day started but-- _no,_ she couldn't think like that, it was too close to something she didn't want to admit.

Lamplight gave way to moonlight again as she turned the wick down and slipped outside, stomach churning and regret hitting immediately when the door to their ( _his_ ) rented room latched shut behind her But she couldn't, she couldn't stay there, she couldn't make that kind of _commitment_ \-- it wasn’t what she'd planned on-- it was just supposed to be _physical_ , they weren't supposed to fall in _love_ with each other...

For a split second she considered turning around and going back inside, falling asleep beside him again and talking out their feelings in the morning as they set off for Freeside; beyond this blind panic she herself didn't know what she felt, or didn't want to name it, at least. But talking was hard, letting herself be open and vulnerable enough to discuss these emotions was messy and awkward and _dangerous_...if she just disappeared both of them would be spared so much potential hassle and pain. She could keep rebuilding her life; he could find someone else who wasn't as much of a train wreck.

She'd find another way to Freeside. Go through Novac if she had to, use mountain pathways to avoid Nipton; she’d _die_ before going back there. Beg the Johnsons for a change in her regular mail route so she wouldn't have to cross paths with the Chavez caravan again. Hell, even taking jobs across the Colorado sounded more appealing than facing her feelings for him again.

Everyone else in Sloan was asleep, save for a lone guard who gave her a puzzled look as she set out. In response she shrugged and showed off a package from her messenger bag-- the Mojave Express stopped for nothing, not acid rain nor hail of bullets nor dead of night. One way or another, the mail got delivered.

A few hours of walking and Jules arrived in Goodsprings just as the sun began to peek up over the hills. Luckily the saloon was open 24 hours. She ordered a drink from the yawning bartender-- not the woman usually there but an older man who looked slightly incredulous at her request. Maybe it was the hour, or the specific liquor, or, most likely, a combination of both; not many people wanted tequila shots at six in the morning, but he obliged her anyway.

They were the only two in the bar so early, but mercifully he left her alone in her booth. She downed all three shots within a minute or two, held her head in her hands and finally couldn't keep herself from crying any longer.


	2. Early November, 2281

**_Early November, 2281_ **

_“So I finally get to meet the courier who's caused so much trouble for the New California Republic.”_

_“Yes, sir. That’s me.”_

_“Decanus Dead Sea reports you singlehandedly decimated Camp Forlorn Hope.”_

_“Yes, sir, and I killed the rangers watching Nelson as well. He gave me his blade, the Liberator, as thanks, and I wield it proudly.”_

_“As you should. The question is...are you ready to truly get started?”_

_“...Of course, Lord Caesar. How may I serve your Legion?”_

_\---------_

_“I'm sure you found Benny's demise pleasing.”_

_“More than you know, Lord Caesar.”_

_“Good. Let’s press on, shall we? I need Mr. House out of the picture as well.”_

_“Of course, my lord. But--”_

_“What?”_

_“If I may, sir-- ever since I saw the destruction your Legion wrought in Nipton I’ve admired your strength and power, and I want to be a part of your victory when the battle at Hoover Dam comes.”_

_“You want to be a legionary.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“You, a_ **_woman_ ** _, want to be a legionary.”_

_“...Yes, sir.”_

_“_ **_Why._ ** _”_

_“Because...I want to be on the winning side of history, sir. There’s no love lost between myself and the NCR-- I grew up poor, in-- near the Mojave Outpost, and they weren’t kind to us despite their promises to send help and how easy it would have been. I want them to pay for neglecting us-- I want them to see consequences for their inaction.”_

_“Simple revenge, then.”_

_“...More than that, sir. I’ve seen what your Legion is capable of. I want to help bring a new era of civilization into the Mojave, and the Legion is the only thing that can. House is content to let everything but New Vegas rot, I know from experience the NCR won’t do anything either...the Legion is inevitable. And I want to be part of it.”_

_“Revenge...and glory. That can be arranged. You're an exception and deserve exceptions.”_

_“Sir?”_

_“No woman has been worthy of fighting for me-- until now. Chasing the man who tried to kill you halfway across the Mojave...you've got nerve, you get things done. I like that. Prove your loyalty and you’ll be at my side when my Legate and I march victorious across Hoover Dam, and when we take New Vegas you’ll be a commander yourself. You’ll have your own elite squad of men, a title all your own, you’ll perform special assignments for me at my discretion. That’s..._ ** _agreeable_ ** _to you, isn’t it?”_

_“Yes! I mean, yes sir, of course it is! You really mean it?”_

_“Why would I not?”_

_“Of course I’ll do it, Lord Caesar! Whatever you say-- I’m at your command, sir. Until death.”_

_“Excellent. Time for you to get to work-- Vulpes. Accompany her.”_

_“Lord Caesar, I--”_

_“Are you questioning my orders?”_

_“...No, sir.”_

_“I didn’t think so. Get going. I want Mr. House dealt with_ **_tonight._ ** _”_

_\---------_

_“I don’t_ **_need_ ** _a babysitter.”_

_“And I have more important things to do than chaperone you, but Caesar’s will must be done.”_

_“Whatever. Just stay out of my way and we’ll be fine.”_

_“You won’t get any complaints from-- what are you doing, Courier?”_

_“It’s just Med-X. Did you think I was gonna waltz into House’s own casino unprepared when he’s armed to the teeth with securitrons?”_

_“You know chemical aids are forbidden to legionaries, don’t you?”_

_“...Just stay out of my way, Vulpes.”_

_“I might have to tell Caesar about this.”_

_“No, you don’t.”_

_“But I_ **_might._ ** _We just don’t know.”_

_“Vulpes, just drop it.”_

_“How can I? You’ve barely started with the Legion and here you are, breaking one of our most **important** laws...” _

_“Vulpes...please don’t say anything. I won’t use any more chems, I promise.”_

_“...Oh, alright. Don’t worry, Courier. It’ll be our little_ **_secret._ ** _”_

_\---------_

_“You left us to_ **_die!_ ** _Nipton was starving, our mayor was bleeding us dry, and you_ **_FUCKING_ ** _rangers did_ **_NOTHING!_ ** _”_

_“So you just join Caesar’s Legion? You’re an_ **_idiot._ ** _Do you know what they_ **_do_ ** _to women like us?”_

_“Not to_ **_me,_ ** _asshole. Caesar promised me a command of my own once we_ **_destroy_ ** _you at the Dam. I’m going to lead my own squad, have honor and glory you could only_ **_DREAM_ ** _of.”_

_“Is_ **_that_ ** _what he told you? God, you’re crazier than I thought. Turn around, go apologize to Ambassador Crocker, he might forgive you if you ask_ **_nicely_ ** _enough.”_

_“_ **_No!_ ** _You’re not just_ **_leaving--_ ** _we’re finishing this,_ **_now!_ ** _”_

_“You don’t even want to live another three days? Your death wish is that_ **_fucking_ ** _bad? Christ! Go on, get laid one more time-- you don’t improve your standing with the NCR, we’ll see you soon enough.”_

_“_ **_Fuck you!_ ** _”_

_“Three days._ **_Remember_ ** _that.”_

_“...You’re from Nipton?”_

_“God, Vulpes! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”_

_“Why didn’t you tell me? Of_ **_all_ ** _people I’d be_ **_most_ ** _interested to know.”_

_“You haven’t asked.”_

_“You could have told me when we first met. In Nipton.”_

_“I was a little busy at the time.”_

_“Fair enough. I can understand how it wouldn’t be the first subject on your mind...it must have held some_ **_terrible_ ** _memories for you.”_

_“You could say that.”_

_“How_ **_cathartic_ ** _it must have been to see it razed, down to its very foundations. Surely you dreamt of doing the same as we did...at least when you weren’t spending your nights in a chem-induced_ **_stupor_ ** _.”_

_“...Vulpes, I don’t--”_

_“I have to admit, I’m a little surprised you actually left town and managed to better yourself as well as you did. Women in your_ **_profession_ ** _aren’t exactly known for their good judgment.”_

_“...I didn’t...know mailmen had...had a reputation for making bad choices.”_

_“Oh, Courier. We_ **_both_ ** _know I’m not talking about_ **_that._ ** _”_

_“...How-- how do you know about...?”_

_“Your mayor, Courier. He kept very detailed-- very_ **_lewd--_ ** _journals. Quite a riveting read, if you ask me.”_

_“...Vulpes, I-- it was a long time ago, Vulpes! I was desperate, I didn’t have a_ **_choice!_ ** _It was-- it was that or starve! I couldn’t-- I’m not like that anymore, I’m better, I’m_ **_reformed!_ ** _I’ll be a_ **_good_ ** _legionary, I swear! I swear to God, or-- or_ **_Mars,_ ** _or whatever you want, I’m_ **_different_ ** _now!”_

_“Ha! A legionary? No, you won’t be a good_ **_legionary._ ** _But you’re certainly welcome to try, even with such a sordid past dangling over your head. Don’t worry, though-- Caesar will never know what you’ve done. It’ll be a_ **_secret,_ ** _just between us two.”_


	3. Mid-December, 2281

**Mid-December, 2281**

“What happened to _you?_ "

The question came with a solid _THUMP_ at the scar on her forehead and Jules immediately swatted the boy’s hand away. ‘Boy’-- he was barely 19 but at least a foot taller than she was and built like a brick wall. About as smart as one, too. Felix, Aurelius had said his name was.

“It’s none of your _business_ _,_ ” she sneered back. She’d been relieved to not have to deal with Vulpes Inculta on this mission like she usually did, as apparently Caesar thought the spymaster was best equipped to keep an eye on her. Neither Jules nor Vulpes himself agreed, but neither was in a place to protest the assignment, so Vulpes contented himself with making her life more difficult. Threatening, as he learned of each transgression, to tell Caesar of her past, her profligate ways and previous employment in Nipton, the empty syringes in her bag-- Jules had sworn off chems after killing House; she couldn't remember ever touching them since then, except just normal stimpaks, but Vulpes told her otherwise. With her memory still missing pieces, thanks to Benny, she couldn't be sure he was wrong. Each revelation of her sins ended the same way, with Vulpes promising he'd keep her secrets, sneering down his nose at her all the while.

But this time in place of Vulpes’ condescension and threats, she had Felix’s gross incompetence as well as his disrespect. “I’m surprised you don’t already _know_ _._ Isn't it common knowledge by now? Even though it's _nobody's_ business?”

“I think it _is_ my business, Courier. Lord Caesar assigned me to chaperone you.”

“What does that have to do with that scar?”

Felix puffed his chest out and adopted an even more superior tone. “There’s no secrets in the Legion, Courier. As long as you’re working for us _you_ have to follow _our_ rules.”

“Is that right.” She dug into her messenger bag for a stimpak and jabbed it into the crook of her elbow, never breaking eye contact– nothing in particular needed the medicine but it was worth it to watch Felix pale and squirm. The boy had never even _seen_ a needle before. Stimpaks, of course, were as forbidden to legionaries as illicit chems, and Jules largely obeyed that rule, but she made an exception for them if the situation called for it-- and this one _definitely_ called for it. Besides, Caesar had an _Auto-Doc._  Surely the Courier could use _one_ measly little stimpak every now and then.

To his credit, for all his visible discomfort Felix never turned away, though his eyes kept flicking between hers and the syringe. “You-- you can’t use chemical aids, Courier! Caes-- Caesar f-forbids it for all his men!”

“I’m not a man.” Damn, where was this confidence of hers when she needed it to handle Vulpes? Although Felix was so dumb, he’d be an easy target for anyone, even her. Felt nice to be on the giving end for once.

She yanked the syringe out of her arm and looked up at him expectantly. “You were saying?”

Felix shied away from the needle she still held, the first time she’d ever seen fear cross his face. “I’ll-- I’ll tell Caesar! I’ll tell him you’re still a no-good profligate who goes against his orders and uses chems! All _kinds_ of chems! Every day! He’ll never let you help us again. You’ll be just like everyone else we’ve conquered.”

He was blustering, she _knew_ he was blustering, but it still gave her pause. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

He would. But would Caesar do as Felix threatened? Jules was already an exception-- a free woman in the Legion-- so surely Caesar wouldn't be as harsh with her when he'd allowed her to serve. He'd more or less told her as much himself-- she was _special_ _,_ clearly skilled and stubborn enough to hold her own trekking across the entire Mojave to find the man who tried to kill her. What had started as a simple quest for revenge against Benny had quickly become an undying admiration for and loyalty to Caesar. He'd promised her prestige and winning the Dam for him would earn that for her. If Lanius was his right hand, Jules would be his left, ready, willing and able to do any task he set for her.

Then again...then again, what if she'd used up all his goodwill? She'd already received so much leniency from him...his promises had come with an equal number of threats; he'd made it very clear that if she disobeyed or _failed_ him in any way the Legion would have nothing more to do with her. With how strict the rules were on unnatural substances-- legionaries weren't even allowed coffee or soda or any sweets at all-- something as simple as Felix telling about her use of stimpaks could very well tip her over the edge of Caesar's favor.

No. It wasn't worth the risk. “Alright, Felix. What do you want?”

The boy shook his messy mop of red hair and grinned. “Tell me about that scar.”

She glared up at him, resentful but resigned. “Fine.”

_Groggy, groaning in pitch black with rough, unfamiliar voices surrounding her-- interrupted by a much smoother one, the smell of cigarette smoke wafting through the canvas covering her face. Someone yanks the bag off, temporarily blinding her with a lamp, but soon she sees three figures before her. Two Great Khans plus one man in an ugly black and white suit jacket._  
  
_“Time to cash out,” the one in the jacket says, paying her attempts to break the bonds around her wrists no mind._  
  
_“Would you get it over with?” The Khans are impatient, practically leaping at the chance to bury her-- there’s more behind her, she can feel their heavy footsteps on the ground. Her eyes drift over to the left and her stomach sinks: two more Khans flanking a shallow grave. Oh god. Oh god no, please no, she can’t die like this!_  
  
_The jacket frowns. “Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain’t a fink, dig?” Looks down at her, pulls a platinum poker chip out of his pocket-- the package she was taking to the Strip. Damn it, she wasn’t even supposed to have that one! She’d accidentally picked it up when another courier had taken the one intended for her...some luck she had._  
  
_“You’ve made your last delivery, kid,” Jacket continues. “Sorry you got twisted up in this scene.” He puts the chip back in his pocket, pulls something else out of his jacket-- it gleams in the firelight and she can see it’s a gun, plated in gold, a fine painting on the grips but she can’t tell what. Her heart beats even faster, she gasps for air through the dirty cloth they gagged her with-- no, no, no no no, she didn’t escape Nipton and kick a chem addiction just to die here in the middle of nowhere, no, this wasn’t happening, it WOULDN’T happen!_  
_  
Jacket lowers the gun, points it right at her forehead, unfazed by her very obvious terror. “From where you’re kneeling it must seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck. Truth is...the game was rigged from the start.”_

_A flash and a bang and a sudden, searing pain in her skull-- then nothing._

_Nothing until she wakes up in a dimly lit room that’s still too bright, stitches in her head and a calm voice telling her to take it easy, asking her name._

_“J-Jules,” she stammers out, holding her head, “Jules Mc-cAllister.” It’s all she has at the moment (more comes back later, with time and rest and familiar sights, but a larger part than she’d like to admit is gone forever). Her name and the image of the man who shot her, and a burning for answers-- and revenge._

“Got shot,” she answered Felix. “Kid I talked to once put it nicely-- ‘two to the skull, but one gets back up.’ Some dick in a checkered jacket thought he could leave me for dead in some graveyard in the middle of nowhere. Sure proved him wrong.”

His eyes went wide with incredulity. “Really?”

“Yep.” That was that, nothing more for her to say.

But of course Felix couldn’t let it end there, smug, dumb bastard he was. “You’re tough, Courier...I like that.”

_Here we fucking go._

“Perhaps once I make the praetorian guard I’ll take you as one of _my_ women. I’d love to- _OOF!_ ”

A swift blow to his stomach cut him off, followed immediately by a harder one to his face and he went down as his nose made a sickening crunching noise under Jules’ fist. She stood over him as he moaned, holding his face and looking up at her with disbelief that such a small woman could best him.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure you’ll be a _great_ praetorian.” Despite his best efforts, blood gushed through his fingers, dripping red down into his mouth. “Let’s get one thing straight: if you _ever_ talk about me like that again, it won’t just be your _nose_ that’s broken. Understand?”

He nodded frantically, but she wasn’t done just yet.

“You know what happened to the guy who shot me?”

Felix shook his head no, still cringing.

“Take a look in the arena next time you’re at Fortification Hill.” She stepped away, kicking dirt at him. “Get up, we have a bunker to blow.”

Five days later they were back at Fortification Hill with Jules giving her report to Caesar about how the Mojave chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel was destroyed at her hands and hers alone. Felix told anyone who asked that a deathclaw was responsible for his freshly broken nose and impressively bruised face. The other recruits knew better, though, and they regarded Jules with a new wariness-- calling it respect would go too far, but they largely left her alone and looked at her with more fear than mockery.

She’d never been more proud.


	4. March 16, 2282

**_March 16, 2282_ **

_“...received your reward, Courier, be_ **_grateful_ ** _for it...” “Lord Caesar, you promised me prestige, not a coin...” “...no place for women in the Legion...” “I want what you_ **_promised_ ** _me, you **can't** screw me over like this, you **have to let me...** ” _

_The scene plays over and over in her mind, always ending the same way. She grabs Caesar's arm, demanding what she's owed, and he fixes a furious glare on her and says just two words, two words that haunt her, rattling around her memory for the rest of her life:_

**_“Crucify her.”_ **

_Vulpes Inculta had taken great joy in this last assignment of his, marching her in a humiliating parade through Freeside and bragging about her sins, saying she stole credit for her accomplishments from more deserving men before taking her to the southern outskirts of New Vegas and leaving her alone on a cross, facing out into dark, empty desert._

_She'd screamed herself hoarse as soon as he was out of earshot._

_The lights of the Strip are bright enough to reach out here, illuminating a short distance in front of her though her vision's starting to spot from how difficult it is to get a breath. They can't just leave her here-- they'll come back for her, they have to; they'll wait long enough for her to learn her lesson and then get her down, take her back to the Strip and give her another assignment for Caesar. Menial tasks, sure, but she can work her way back up. They'll come get her and bring her home. They have to. They have to. **They have to.** _

_She doesn't know how long she's been up there by the time she hears footsteps approaching-- see! She was right! Caesar's sent a rescue party for her! The figure is hard to make out but after a few blinks she can see a masked face under a large hat, a couple more blinks and it's a decanus before her, holding up a light to get a good look as he tilts his head. He blurs through fresh tears filling her eyes and fades with the rest of her vision as it all goes black--_

_The next thing she knows she's flat on the ground, disoriented and gasping for air-- **gods,** it's never tasted so good-- her vision slowly fading back in with each blink as she takes stock of her condition-- throat raw from screaming, mouth dry and pounding headache from dehydration, wrists, hands, ankles, feet, all throbbing; she's in no shape to hike back to the Fort but maybe the decanus-- _

_“Hoo! So yer Courier Six, eh?”_

_That's not a decanus’ voice._

_Jules cranes her neck to look up at her savior and can tell now how far off from reality what she saw on the cross was. The figure’s in a cowboy hat, with goggles and a bandana as a mask and a ranger coat cut short, rifling through a large backpack as she--_ **_she!--_ ** _keeps talking._

_“Sure got yerself in a mess a'trouble t'get strung up there. But y’don’t got t'worry 'bout those Legion sonsabitches no more, not while y'got_ **_me_ ** _'round. Gimme yer arm.”_

_Jules’ only response is to continue staring up at her, confused, and to try and wheeze out a protest with no result._

_The woman rolls her head around and grabs Jules’ arm herself, jabbing a stimpak into it as she drags her to her feet. “Let's get y’to my li'l hideout in th’caves up there, get y’patched up. That stim’ll get y’goin’ but--”_

_Jules pulls herself away from her, or at least tries, and flops back down to her stomach with an ungraceful **WHUMP.** “Fuckin’...fuckin’ _ **_ranger..._ ** _fuckin’_ **_NCR..._ ** _”_

_“I ain't no ranger, Courier, certainly ain't no NCR. Jus’ a Good Samaritan, 's all. Now c'mon.” She hauls Jules up again, supporting her weight so much she’s practically carrying her. “Time's a-wastin’ an’ we wanna be long gone b'fore any Legion show up.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to RandamHajile and her OC Lexington for saving Jules' sorry ass


	5. Mid-May, 2282

**Mid-May, 2282**

“That's a new one, Jules.”

Chavez reached out to brush stray strands of blonde hair away from her face but she shied away. As if it wasn't bad enough that the Legion had _crucified_ her for mouthing off to Caesar after he went back on his promises to her, she'd been rescued by an anti-Legion _resistance_ agent calling herself Lexington and dragged on a road trip through Nevada and California and _Arizona_ with said resistance agent and her cousin (an ex-frumentarius Jules’ savior _insisted_ was reformed!). _Plus_ _,_ that trip had now resulted in a meeting with _other_ resistance agents, including Joshua _fucking_ Graham, come down from Utah to help oust Caesar once and for all, and a trader Lexington had introduced as Javier Chavez-- Jules had recognized the name but he'd recognized _her_ _,_ flying between shock and anger and hurt (and _relief?_ ) while he fired off an explanation to Lexington in Spanish, throwing glances at Jules the whole time. He didn't have to worry. The extent of her knowledge of the language was only useful in a bar.

The plan was to get into Flagstaff to steal some intel the resistance could use to sneak into New Vegas (at least that's what Jules thought it was; she'd been too distracted trying to avoid Chavez to pay much attention) but to do that the women in the party needed a free man to vouch for them. Jules would have rather died-- _successfully_ _,_ this time-- than put herself under a legionary’s watch again, so here she was with the man she'd gradually come to remember as her ex. The comment about her scar was the first thing he'd said since they set out.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, further exposing the pale pink line cutting a circle around her head, through the bullet scar in fact, and kept her eyes on her feet. “I've gotten a _few_ new ones in the past couple years, Chavez.”

“Mmm.” He looked back to the front of the wagon, then to her again. “What's that one?”

_Another blackout, another woozy awakening-- she's got to stop doing that. Instead of voices there's only eerie silence this time, punctuated by the occasional whirring or beeping of machines. No sign of human life. The facility (a hospital? a lab? it's not like anything she's ever seen before) is cold and clinical, and as she pushes herself off the gurney her body feels...heavy. Like it's not entirely hers. A dull, throbbing pain in her head, her chest, her back-- something is extremely wrong._

_She presses buttons to open room after room and catches a glimpse of her reflection in the startlingly clean floors. Kneeling for a closer look, she's shocked at what she finds and traces with her fingertips: almost all her hair is gone, and there's a long, angry gash with haphazard stitches around the full circumference of her head, still sore to the touch. She tugs the collar of her flimsy hospital gown to look at her chest-- another incision, straight down the middle and hastily stitched up. From the way her back feels, there's surely more cuts and more stitches along her spine, too. What the hell happened at the Mojave Drive-In? Where the hell was she?_

_Further exploration gives her the answers she's looking for-- sort of. Five scientists who are actually brains of pre-war scientists floating in goo on metal frames removed her brain, but complications arising from the bullet wound resulted in her heart (?) and her spine (??) having to be removed as well. The scientists, not having hands, lost her brain, so now she has Tesla coils in her skull and cybernetic organs to replace the others they took, and if she wants to leave she has to retrieve said brain from the nefarious Dr. Mobius._

_It's just like one of her science fiction novels._

_The Big Empty (or Big MT, or Big Mountain, as the scientists insist it's called) is her own personal playground for the next two weeks, her brain almost forgotten as she explores every nook and cranny of the facility. A holograph testing lab, a splicing facility where she makes her own cyberdog, a virtual reality room that's unfortunately broken-- roboscorpions, nightstalkers, spore carriers and cazadores-- mazes and testing grounds and satellites and the most incredible and fucking terrifying things she's ever seen...Big MT's the adventure of her lifetime._

_She befriends the scientists, by figuring out one's name, tracking down another's dog, breathing for a third and simply talking with the fourth, and fills her temporary home with the chattering voices of ten different programs for all its gadgets. She finds new weapons to take home with her for the battle at the Dam, but aside from a few fleeting thoughts the Legion is almost forgotten, and it's the happiest she's been in years, until she finds traces of Elijah and Christine, who'd apparently found their way here before going to the Sierra Madre, and of the other courier mentioned by not only Elijah but the Burned Man and Dr. 0 as well._

_Finally her organs find their homes back in her body, though not until after a brief moment of hesitation. The synthetic ones make her stronger, impervious to poison and crippling blows, but...the Legion's strict ban on technology remains, and what is she if not a legionary? Now she's destructible again, but it's harder to do it thanks to the remnants of her implants._

_The Auto-Doc even restores her hair and offers to erase her scars from the surgery, the shooting and the stabbing, but she declines. Much like centurions wear the armor of the soldiers they defeat, so she wears scars from those she's bested: the gouge from the first man she killed, the hole in her skull from Benny that set her on this path to victory with Caesar, now the slices and dices from Big Mountain, which she's defeated just like all the rest of her opponents. She tamed its horrors and its wonders for her own purposes, and once the NCR falls at the Dam she'll use what she found to bring the Legion into the future, to better Caesar's rule and her own performance as a leader herself. That's what she'd do._

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” she said to Chavez, the corners of her mouth very slightly turning upwards at her memories of the Think Tank. “I have trouble believing it myself.”

He raised a brow, face calm save for the curiosity burning in those eyes. She remembered that from before; he'd gotten better about keeping his tells in check but they were still there if you looked. “Try me.”

“Lobotomy,” she offered casually, starting to unwind the boxer's tape around her hands but then winding it back again. “Got abducted by some mad scientists, they stole my brain, my heart and my spine just because.”

He eyed the ring around her head and his curiosity turned to concern, another look familiar from years ago. “They did _what?_ Why? ...How?”

She shrugged, still avoiding eye contact. “It was the Big Empty. Weird shit happens there every day.” Hopefully he wouldn't press her; _ideally_ he'd stop talking altogether but the odds of that happening were slim to none.

“God.” He did go quiet, though, to her relief, and for a while all they heard were the brahmins’ footsteps and creak of the wagon wheels.

Jules spoke up next, to both of their surprises. “Chavez, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--”

“You meant to do _something_ _,_ obviously.”

“I didn't want to hurt you.”

He snorted derisively. “Yeah, I could tell when you disappeared for three years.”

“Two,” she mumbled in a weak attempt at defense.

“It doesn't matter-- it could have been two _weeks_ and it would still be wrong, Jules. You can't just-- just _abandon_ someone in the middle of the night-- while I was _asleep!--_ much less without an explanation! Do you know how _scared_ I was when I woke up and you were gone? I thought you'd been kidnapped, I thought you were _dead!_ There was no note, no nothing, you just _vanished!_ And why-- because I told you I _loved_ you?” 

He ran his hands over his face while she stayed silent. “My sister searched _every_ group of Legion slaves she freed for you, I looked in _every_ town we passed through, but there was no _trace_ of you anywhere.”

“Weren't looking hard enough.”

“Don't _tell_ me I wasn't looking hard enough! I barely slept for _months_ _,_ I dropped everything because of a rumor about a courier near the Divide, I went to _Legion land_ because I was afraid they'd captured you and sold you off to some centurion.” He looked at her again, his stoicism replaced with pain and anger and regret. “But you ended up there anyway. They didn't even have to put you in chains.”

She squirmed, hunching over further. Everything he said was true, she'd known she was wrong even as she was getting dressed and packing her messenger bag, she'd regretted stepping foot outside the door, but she was panicking, she didn't know what else to do-- so she left.

But she couldn't articulate it, she didn't have a _reason_ to explain that panic-- he'd given her no reason to leave. No red flags, no ill intent behind any of his actions since they'd met. All he'd done was tell her the truth about his feelings for her-- so she sank down further onto the wagon floor. He was a _good_ person, the kind who risked his life to free slaves and fight every day against the dictator _she_ had helped put in place. He didn't deserve what she'd put him through.

“I'm sorry,” she squeaked again, and he sighed, staring up at the wagon's cloth cover.

“It's not enough to just...say you're sorry, Jules. You have to mean it-- you have to _be_ better.”

“I know, I'm trying...”

“Not just try, _BE._ ”

They fell silent again as she pieced through everything and recomposed herself. A few minutes passed until he spoke again.

“You're better than this, Jules. I've seen it. The fact that-- that you're not with the _Legion_ anymore is a good sign.” He let out a wry chuckle and she joined in with a small laugh of her own.

“You can thank Lexington for that,” Jules said, “she pried me off that cross in the first place and put up with me even while I _insisted_ the Legion would take me back. If I was her I would've dropped my sorry ass in Mexico and been done with it, but...she promised she'd stick around, and she did. It...it meant a lot.” She paused, absentmindedly leaning her head on his shoulder before realizing what she was doing and straightening back up.

“I...I am sorry, Chavez.” Her voice was softer now as she continued. “I'm sorry you got hurt, that's not what I was trying...”

“Jules.” He sighed again and ran a hand through his hair. “You can _say_ you're sorry all you want, but it's not going to mean much unless you _do_ something.”

“I know.” At least he wasn't just spitting out empty platitudes; he gave her more credit than that. “I'll find a way... _something_ to try and make it up to you. I swear.”

He nodded and let the conversation lapse again, just for a moment. “I've got your back when we get to Flagstaff. I know-- I know you don't need anyone to protect you, but I'm there if you need anything.”

“Thanks.” She finally looked at him and met his eyes again. “I've...I've got yours too. You can count on it.”

“Just like old times, eh?” He grinned and nudged her with his elbow. “Legionaries instead of deathclaws now, but...” The confused look on her face made him trail off. “You don't remember?”

“Getting shot in the head does a number on your memory, Chavez.” There were faint traces of fights with deathclaws floating around in her brain, but to be honest any that might have involved Chavez were indistinguishable from those that came later.

“Well-- that's how we met, you know. You helped my siblings and me get through Quarry Junction and killed a deathclaw twice your size.”

“That's not exactly hard for a deathclaw to achieve,” she said, trying to sound annoyed but her amusement slipped through anyway.

“Still impressive.” His grin widened. “Why do you think I was so upset when you left? Didn't have a pretty girl to kill monsters for me anymore, I had to deal with them _myself_ _,_ what a _hassle_ _._ ”

Jules tried and failed to stifle her giggles, and the tension lifted, for a moment.

A week or so later the operation in Flagstaff was complete and the resistance team split again, Lexington leading a group to New Vegas for an attack on Caesar himself and the Chavez siblings heading back south towards the Mexican border.

Jules and Chavez said their admittedly awkward goodbyes-- Jules had so much more she wanted to tell him but she didn't have the words. The air was far from clear, and it wasn't like she'd see him again, but still, better to leave things just okay than risk making it worse and ruining a cordial, if not altogether pleasant, moment.


	6. Late May, 2282

**_Late May, 2282_ **

_He's dead._

_Caesar's dead._

_Without a fight, without so much as an attempt to save his own life. But he'd probably known his time was up the second Jules followed Graham through that door to corner him in the penthouse._

_He could've taken her. That displacer glove, one swipe and it would've knocked her off him, fucked up her insides, made it too easy to finish the job and she_ **_knew_ ** _it. Instead he'd just stood there, let her drive him against the wall, drive her knife right into his gut. He'd died smiling, smug as ever, leaving Jules with a chorus of “what if” “what if” “what if” she knows will haunt her for the rest of her life._

_What if he'd fought back? Would he be standing over her corpse now, watching the blood and brains pool around her skull, split wide open from a displacer glove blow? After so many attempts on her life, he'd be the one to do her in. Only fitting. She'd sworn allegiance to him until death, after all._

_What if Graham hadn't been there to back her up? Would Caesar have tried to fight her then? He'd probably known that even if he killed her, he'd have the Burned Man to deal with afterwards, so better to just die sooner than be defeated by Graham. Deny them both satisfaction-- Jules’ need to know she could best him in a fair fight, Graham’s need to directly avenge himself and his tribe._

_What if she hadn't found the resolve to do it? She'd looked up to him, adoring, ever since that first conversation on Fortification Hill. More than as a ruler or commander, as her father too, filling the void she'd had growing up-- and he knew it, he knew_ **_exactly_ ** _how she saw him and twisted it into something hideous, manipulated her into unspeakable atrocities. But traces of that adoration still clung on, offering glimpses of what might have been if she'd just kept her mouth shut and not questioned him, stayed his loyal servant. Her hand had hesitated just a moment, wondering...and then she'd stabbed him, yanked the knife up to split him right down the middle. Caesar's courier no more-- she belongs to no one._

_Jules is in a daze as resistance agents hustle her and Graham and all the rest out of the Lucky 38 and out of Vegas, only coming back to herself when the casino lights are a mile behind them. She's clutching Caesar's fibulae in her hands, blood staining both skin and brass, trudging alongside Graham and Lexington towards Goodsprings._

_“We did it?” she asks, soft and wary._

_Lexington nods and places a hand on her shoulder, squeezes it, reassuring. “Sure did, Jules.”_

_Jules doesn't flinch away._

_The Mojave has a long road ahead of it-- the Legion still clings to life under Lanius, for a short time at least, but the resistance will drive it out of New Vegas to make its last stand in Zion, against an army led by the Burned Man and Lexington herself. It will fall and New Vegas will rise with its new queen, along with a new nation anchored by the Great Salt Lake: New Deseret, born of the army that brought down the Bull for the last time._

_But for now, even with all the chaos in New Vegas that comes with a power vacuum, with all the uncertainty that lies before her, all Jules feels is relief._


	7. Early January, 2287

**Early January, 2287**

“Dear heavens, Miss McAllister!”

 _Fuck_ _._ Of all days to forget her gloves at home, it had to be the one when she was running the telegram line to Reynard Ranch, up in the Mormon district of New Zion. The ranch’s owner wasn’t Jules’ concern, though; it was his neighbors, the Smith family. The one in particular who bothered her now was its patriarch, Jaramie-- these _fucking_ Mormons and their insane names. The entire city had grated on her nerves ever since she’d arrived in Utah, with its over-familiarity and suffocating friendliness, at least up here, but down with the normal people--  _gentiles_ _,_ the church sneered from up on its hill-- she was left alone, just like she wanted.

But not with the Mormons.

Jaramie approached with a deep frown across his face, the most upset she’d ever seen him as he gently took her hand and examined the pale, round scar on the back of her wrist, then turned it over to look at the one on her palm, both around the size of a cap. She tugged away from him, hands darting into her jacket pockets, and his expression immediately turned apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Miss McAllister,” he drawled in that Utahan accent that had become so familiar to her, “I don’t mean to pry--”

“Your tribe always means to pry,” she snipped back, hunching her shoulders and furrowing her brow as much as possible. The Mormons were also, she’d learned well by now, very bad at reading body language. She saw his eyes flick up to her face and widen more at the lobotomy scar and she sighed. What was coming next was something she’d endured countless times already and didn’t expect to escape any time soon.

“But I have to ask...how did you come to have the same wounds as our Lord?”

_“You can’t do this!”_

_Vulpes is unfazed by her screams and ties a knot in the rope keeping her attached to the crossbeam, giving it a good yank to make sure she’s secure as the legionary on her left does the same. He steps back, nods-- two praetorians, the last two remaining from her humiliating march through the streets of New Vegas, hoist her up so she’s dangling in midair, but before they can properly put her on the upright post, he waves his hand._

_“No, I’ve got a better idea.” He drifts over to a nearby cross, occupied by a dead NCR soldier, and scoops up the tools left at its base: a pile of iron railroad spikes, half a foot long, and a hammer. Jules can count on one hand how many times she’s seen him smile. This is one of those few. She starts trying to wiggle her way free of her bonds but with no success; the rope just digs further into her skin as Vulpes returns, swinging the hammer in his hand._

_“Vulpes, you can’t-– I’m Caesar’s courier, you can’t do this to me!”_

_“Did we hear the same orders from him?” He places the tip of a spike in the middle of her palm, lines up the hammer with its head. “Because I remember him saying to crucify you, don’t you?”_

_Before she can respond he brings the hammer down, hard, on the spike, driving it through skin and muscle and bone, and she screams louder than ever before from pain and rage and mortification, but he doesn’t even flinch at the noise. A few more blows and the nail is almost flush with her hand; it’s pierced through the back of her wrist to secure her to the beam._

_She balls her other hand into a fist-– a futile action, as Vulpes just pries it open and splays her fingers out against the wood. “Don’t make me break your legs, Courier,” he says, and hammers a nail in, more jolts of pain coursing up her arm with each strike. “Although after a few hours, you might wish I had. Death would come sooner for you.”_

_Her chest heaves with each gasp for air-– she’s not even suspended yet and she can’t catch a breath, her panic hyperventilating her-– and she can’t tear her eyes away from the nails in her hands, blood already dripping down onto the sand. The praetorians hoist her up, put the beam in place on the post-– no matter how much she thrashes she’s not getting away now; besides, she learns quickly that moving too much and too fast only makes the pain from the nails worse._

_Vulpes starts untying her boots and she kicks at him, trying to drive him away, as though it’ll do her any good; he grabs her feet in a grip stronger than she’d thought him capable of and glares up at her. “What are you trying to accomplish, Courier? You had your chance and you wasted it, for what-– pride?” He lashes her ankles to the post. “Honor? Glory?”_

_Despite the last of her squirming he has a secure hold on her bare feet, bends them down so the soles are against the post, lines up a nail and with a sudden strike, followed by several more, drives it through her heel into the wood. “There’s no honor or glory for you in the Legion. Not for a Nipton whore. You never escaped your little hometown after all, did you?”_

_She's trying so hard not to cry in front of him, but her screaming has been reduced to a pathetic whimper as the last nail pierces her other foot and more tears roll down her face. Vulpes picks up her messenger bag and dumps its contents on the ground in front of her cross by her shoes; he takes the Liberator-– Dead Sea’s own machete, a gift to her after her first Legion triumph at Forlorn Hope-– and examines it while the praetorians scoop up everything else. Benny’s gold-plated gun Maria, the Platinum Chip, the pistol and book of Scripture from the Burned Man, the Transportalponder from Big MT. Ulysses’ gas mask, the Mark of Caesar she’d worn so proudly ever since she got it-– from Vulpes himself. So many things she’d collected and prized..._

_“Your profligate trinkets will be thrown off the Dam,” Vulpes says, still turning the Liberator over in his hands. “They’ll stay trapped at the bottom of the Colorado and be forgotten before long.”_

_He hands the blade off to a praetorian, who bends it over his knee until it’s almost ready to snap in two._

_“Just like you, Courier.” Vulpes makes a sweeping, mocking bow and looks up at her one last time. “In hoc signo, taurus vinces.”_

“You mean you don’t _know_ _?_ ” Jules raised an eyebrow, feigning incredulity. She’d endured this enough; Jaramie wasn’t going to be let off easy, not by a long shot. “Why, enough of you have asked that I thought _everyone_ in New Zion knew _I_ was the Courier who got herself _crucified_ _._ ”

It had only been a few months since Lexington-- now known after the Legion's fall as _General_ Lexington, co-founder of New Deseret, a far cry from the resistance fighter who’d pried her off that cross-- had poached her from her job as chief civil engineer in New Vegas to be the same in the new nation’s capital city, but in that time Jules must have explained herself a thousand times and endured a thousand slackjawed stares just from passing people on the street. Even worse the one time Lexington had managed to drag her through the church doors to a Sunday morning service, where she’d caught the Mormons throwing furtive glances from her scars to the giant cross hanging on the wall in between the crippling waves of panic she’d had at the sight of the thing. She hadn’t gone back since. Lexington hadn’t asked.

“Miss McAllister, I-- I’m sorry,” Jaramie stammered, “I didn’t mean to...I was only curious, I’ve heard about you of course but I didn’t know if I should...believe everything I heard--”

“ _Believe_ it,” she snapped, all her pent-up anger and pain suddenly breaking free to lash out at him, “What have you heard-- I was a jet-lagged, two-cap hooker _seduced_ by the lights of Vegas who thought she could _escape_ her meaningless existence by serving a tyrant, who  _dared_ place herself on equal footing with _Lord Caesar_ and who got _crucified_ for her trouble? Well, you can believe it _all_ _._ ” She knelt and yanked at her boot laces, pulling off one shoe then the other and dropping them and her socks on the ground with a _THUD_ _,_ her bare feet showing scars identical to the ones on her hands. “A spike in each hand and each foot, just like _the good Lord_ _,_ is that right?”

Her voice rising in volume and pitching higher with every word, she ripped off her jacket next and threw it to the ground, then her shirt so Jaramie could get a good look at the long, pale scar curving up and across her stomach to the right side of her waist. “Didn’t he have one of these, too? Tell me if I’m wrong, _Jaramie_ _,_ but something tells me _mine’s_ the only one that came from someone angry they had to _pay_ to _fuck_ me.” She saw him wince and shift backwards, unable to tear his eyes from the scar. “What about the bullet wound from when I was _shot_ _?_ And the ring I’ve got around my head? From when my _brain_ was stolen? Just like that ‘crown of thorns’, is that right? Shit, I must be _special_ after all!”

The Mormons told her she was blessed, _holy_ even, for bearing the same wounds as Jesus Christ and surviving what the Son of God himself could not, that God must have chosen her for something special-- right, if ‘something special’ entailed falling for a despot’s extravagant promises and being publicly humiliated and executed when he betrayed her loyalty, if selling herself on street corners to feed a chem addiction was somehow holy. They’d even gone so far as to _touch_ her scars and ask what kind of divine visions she’d had on her cross-- oh, she’d seen things, she’d answered, that’s what tended to happen when you’ve been dehydrated and baking in the Mojave sun for hours and hours, waiting for rescue that never came, at least not in the form she'd wanted.

Jaramie started to speak again, his eyes flicking back and forth between her face and her stomach, but Jules cut him off, closing the space between them to jab a finger into his chest. “Don’t you _dare_ give me that bullshit about it all being part of _God’s plan_ for me. God doesn’t want anything to _do_ with me. If this, if _everything_ I’ve been through was his _plan_ then I should have put a _bullet_ through my skull when I was nineteen and had the chance.” Before she, through some sick cosmic joke, became nigh unkillable; not bullets nor chems nor a cross on the south side of Vegas could do her in, for better or worse.

“I-- I’m sorry, Miss McAllister, I’m so sorry,” Jaramie sputtered, the words spilling out of his mouth uncontrollably, “I didn’t mean to offend you, or-- or cause you any distress, please, forgive me...”

He was genuine. Jules could hear it in his wavering tone; he wouldn’t intentionally harm anyone. No, he was curious, just like the rest of his tribe, and Jules, a _gentile_ with such an important role in New Zion and with her multitude of scars, would of course be a main focus of their curiosity. But that didn’t mean she had to put up with it.

She took a deep breath, stepped back and scooped up her clothes from the ground. “Just...just leave me alone. All of you, leave me alone.”

Reynard Ranch could wait. If she tried to do any work there today she’d just be distracted, spend more time fixing her mistakes than it’d take to install the telegram line. Dealing with the owner was another mess she was in no mood to take on. She trudged back down the hill to her house, locked the door behind her and opened a bottle of vodka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say a quick thanks for reading this! It's been ages since I was in the fanfiction game but I'm very excited to be back and I hope you enjoyed Jules and her many bad life choices. Also another shoutout, this one to AO3 user 100indecisions/tumblr user thelightofthingshopedfor and tumblr/AO3 users Dragonie and RandamHajile for reading messy drafts of this thing and offering commentary.
> 
> Like I said in the tags, this is the same AU that the epistolary fic, Case File: Vulpes Inculta, takes place in-- neither is dependent on the other but they do go nicely together, so if you want more of this universe head on over to that fic!


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